«A Toxic Love»
«Do you really think this free-spirited bird will stay married for long?» Emma tried to reason with me.
«Time will tell,» I said with a blissful smile, not knowing then that those words would become the mottoand curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening as if it were yesterday. A stuffy banquet hall, the scent of expensive perfume, chatter about money, and fake smiles. I stood with a glass in hand, thinking how utterly bored I was. I was about to slip away when I heard a womans infectious laugh behind me. I turned as if pulled by a string.
And there she was. Katie. She was gesturing animatedly, telling some story to a group of men. Slim, in a simple dress, but with such fire in her hazel eyes that my carefully constructed, safe world shattered in an instant.
«Whos that?» I asked Emma, an old acquaintance.
«Thats my friend Katie,» she sighed. «Fair warningshes a walking disaster in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingexhilarating, but you might crash.»
I barely heard the warning, already entranced. For me, raised by parents who lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. It was love at first sightor, more accurately, an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, against my parents pleas. «Shell break you, son,» my father said, peering over his glasses. «That girl isnt made for marriage.»
«Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,» my mother echoed. «Shell strangle you dry.»
But all I saw was sunlight. I thought: *What my rigidly scheduled life needs is a hurricane.*
The first months were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 AM: «Thomas, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river!» And we did. Shed strike up conversations with homeless men outside our flat, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And II breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.
Then came the first thunderclap.
The financial crisis hit hard. My businessmy lifes workwavered, then collapsed within months. I tried salvaging what I could, but it was futile. One evening, I came home empty-eyed, defeated. The ground was crumbling beneath me.
Katie met me at the door. Not with an embrace. Arms crossed, she stared at me with a cold, unfamiliar gaze.
«Well, genius? Lost everything?» Her voice was sharp, merciless.
My breath caught. «Katie, ImIm trying»
«Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,» she cut in. «I wont drown with you. I dont *do* poverty. I need stability. You cant give me that anymore. Sorry.»
She packed her suitcases right in front of me. My throat tightened.
«Katie, waitplease,» my voice cracked into a whisper. «Ill fix this. *We* can fix this»
She paused, tucking her bright red passport into her handbag. When she finally looked at me, there was no love, no regret. Just icy irritation.
«Thomas, stop embarrassing yourself. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.»
The door slammed. The sound reverberated in my chest like physical pain. I crumpled to the floor in the hallway, crying like a boy, smearing tears across my face. The world lost its color. Food turned tasteless; air grew thick and heavy.
Katie returned six months later.
I opened the doorand there she stood. Thin, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My legs nearly gave way.
«That broker turned out to be insufferable,» she said, slipping past me, kicking off her heels. «Even his car playlist was classical.»
She said it as if shed just popped out for groceries, not left another mans bed.
Instead of throwing her things onto the pavement, instead of shouting, I felt wild, all-consuming joy. Shed come back! Shed chosen *me*!
«Im sorry,» I choked out. «I was weak. I failed you. Im sorry I couldnt be what you needed.»
She stilled, surprised. When I looked up, her expression wasnt remorseit was satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right. And I? Always wrong.
There were other departures.
First, a «guru» who whisked her off to the mountains to «find enlightenment.» I didnt leave the house for two weeks. I lay on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring blankly, imagining her laughing with him, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me physically ill.
Then came the «real man»muscular, with a cocky grin. I saw them in the park by chance. His arm around her waist, whispering in her ear. She threw her head back and laughed *that* laughthe one that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
Each time, she returned. And each time, I was there to open the door.
Emma, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one reunion, nearly shouting:
«Thomas, wake up! Shes *using* you! She bragged that you apologized again! For *what*? In Gods name, for *what*?»
«For not being interesting enough. For not holding her attention. I bore her. Its my fault, Em. Always mine.»
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. A waiting room for Katie. And the worst part? Id accepted it. Because life without her seemed worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after she returned from the «stallion,» I broke. I entered the bedroom. She slept sprawled across my side of the bed, serene, breathtaking. Sitting on the edge, I whispered hoarsely:
«Tell me, why? Why do you always come back to *me*?»
She stirred, stretching, her face lighting up with *that* smilethe one that had once disarmed me completely.
«Because youre my home, Tommy,» she murmured sleepily. «My safe harbor. You… always wait.»
Those words held no love. Only convenience. And that hurt more than all her betrayals combined. Yet when she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her warm cheek to my chest, my pain, my pride, my willall dissolved.
I despised myself in those moments, but I couldnt let go. Even knowing the door might slam shut again. Because those stolen moments when Katie was here? They were gulps of air. Without her, life was an endless, silent, gray void.
…Katie left again the day I nearly lost the last shred of my true self.
This time, with a gallerista «sensitive artist,» shed said, sneering at my corporate ties. Alone in our sterile flat, the phone rang. My father had had a stroke.
Rushing across town, his warnings echoed in my mindthe ones Id so fiercely dismissed. *»Shell break you, son.»* Id thought he meant my career, my money. But hed meant *me*. My soul.
In the hospital room, my motheralways composedsat crying silently by his bed. My father, pale, face twisted, stared at the ceiling. A ghost of the stern man whod taught me lifes lessons.
Something inside me *clicked*. A near-physical sensation. With chilling clarity, I saw myself in himjust as broken, just as paralyzed. Only, his collapse was from illness. Mine? From love.
I sat beside my mother, taking her trembling hand, resting my head on her shoulder:
«Im sorry. I didnt listen.»
«We always hoped youd wake up,» she whispered back.
That night, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies things. Almost threw them outbut didnt. Just shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign on it: *»Waiting Room Closed.»*
The hardest part? Not replying when she texted two weeks later: *»Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust here.»* My fingers itched to type *»Come home.»* But I remembered my fathers face. And for the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages piled upconfused, then angry, then mocking: *»Tommy, what, on a diet? Wasting away without me?»* I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up unannounced. Dropped her bag in the hallway, barking:
«Thomas, fetch my suitcase from the car!»
«You misunderstood,» I said softly, each word deliberate. «This isnt your home anymore.»
Fear flickered in her eyes*real* fear. Shed lost control.
«Whats wrong with you? Are you *ill*?»
«Yes, Katie. I was very ill. Now Im healing. And it hurts. *You* were my sickness.»
It was agony. Like withdrawal. But I clung to quiet evenings with my recovering father. To my mothers steady support. And to my own willno longer spent waiting, but on saving myself.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body and soul ached, detoxing. I caught myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps on the stairs. But the urges faded.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from a tropical island: *»No one ever waited for me like you did.»*
I moved her things to storage. Not in angerjust hygiene. Making space for my own life.
Months after, Emma invited me to a small gallery opening.
«Dont worry, your hurricane wont be there,» she joked.
But I wasnt afraid anymore. I studied the paintings, sipped wine, and met the gaze of a womannot dazzling like Katie, but with calm, attentive eyes. We talked about art, books. No pretense. No forced enthusiasm.
Walking her out, I realized with surprise: I felt no anxiety. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just… calm. For the first time, I could simply *be*.
No predictions. No fantasies. Whatever came next would be *my* life. *My* choices.
A path without eternal waiting in an empty room.
